


On Sleepless Roads

by OnceUponaFangirl



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Some Fluff, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-10-08 15:49:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10390269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnceUponaFangirl/pseuds/OnceUponaFangirl
Summary: A season 6 canon divergence. There’s an irony, she supposes, that something created to pull one into eternal sleep, is now a barrier to any sleep. Her body fights against the maddening exhaustion. She’s just so tired, so fucking tired and she can’t keep going like this.





	1. Chapter 1

One night of peace is all they were granted before the next crisis began. One night to recover from the aftermath of darkness and secrets, hell and death, before Mr. Hyde made his presence in town known. But with Killian by her side, it didn’t seem to matter in the long run. The moment she saw him above the place his body had been laid to rest, a question in the call of her name, she decided to fight for her own happiness. Maybe the savior could have a happy ending as well. Maybe this was it.

That was what she had believed before she found herself here.

“Ah, the infamous Savior. Do you really think yourself a match for me?” She can’t see his face, the cloaked figure that’s far too reminiscent of past Dark Ones. With the edge of his blade threatening Henry’s throat, she draws her sword, sighing in relief when the action grants her son’s release. Killian grabs Henry the moment he’s near.  

Cold air bites at her skin, slips into the gap between her sweater and back, leaving a trail of goosebumps. She tightens her grip on her father's sword. “I think you’ll find yourself surprised.”

“Perhaps. But you can’t fight wounded.” She feels the ground give beneath her first - knees stinging with a thud as they hit concrete. There’s a thick sticky crimson covering her hands where she’s holding them at her side and _oh_ _god_ -

The dagger poking out of torn flesh burns - a hot searing pain that stifles her breathing. It hurts. It aches, throbbing with a sharp pain paralleled by nothing she has felt before. Her cry is a high pitched wince as her body curves into itself and _dammit it hurts_. She tries to focus on the roughness of the unpaved road at her knees, but she can feel the sensation fading, can feel herself fading with it. The moment she moves, a small shift as her legs give out, it comes back with a fury.

Muffled words grow louder as the world around her comes back into focus, Killian’s panicked voice the only thing she can hear.

“What’s wrong? Emma, Emma, love talk to me!”

Her eyes burn too, and she tries to blink against the dust clouding them, moaning in pain at the knife lodged into her side. “Killian,” she breathes, leaning into his chest as his arms wrap around her. Magic pulsates beneath her palms but does nothing to heal the wound or stop the bleeding. “Son of a bitch.” It's gritted between closed teeth, and she tries again to no avail.

Killian’s hand is cold as it roams across her shoulders and down to her back, frantically searching for something he can’t seem to find. He repeats her name, a panicked fear she can feel rise in his chest with every inhale.

“I’m-” His hand finds hers with calloused fingers pressing further into the wound - adding kerosene to what might have been a dulling spark. She reels forward as the lights flicker on, an anguished cry at the contact. It seems to summon Henry, the absolute last person she wants to see her in this state. But before she can tell him to leave, he's scavenging her purse for keys as Killian lifts her into his arms. Her request would have fallen on deaf ears anyway.

“Come on, Swan. I’m getting you to a hospital.”

-/-/-

She wakes to white, blinking in finally clear vision. The persistent beeping from machines and wires twisted around her arm only add to her disorient and she hears more than feels the familiar crinkle of leather shifting next to her. Curved, cool metal rests atop her hand that she now registers as being interlocked with Killian’s. It’s a second of blissful peace - another stolen quiet moment that only a couple nights ago, she thought they’d never have again. She turns her head to his, thumb reaching up to smooth the worry lines etched into his forehead. Reality, however, is setting back in, and with it is a rising panic. “What happened?”

“Your faithful pirate and son brought you in a few hours ago,” Dr. Whale begins. She wants to laugh, or cry, at the fact that he seems to be Storybrooke’s only docter. In the end she settles for avoiding eye contact. “You were pretty out of it, something about being stabbed. But whatever it was, you were in a lot of pain. So, I sedated you and ran some tests.”

“What are you talking about? I _was_ stabbed.” She looks to Killian, the confusion furrowing his brows creating a deep anxiety in her chest.

“Hook, would you like to tell her what you told me?” Whale asks.

Killian nods, squeezing her hand just a little tighter. “Love, what do you remember?”

“We were in front of Gold’s shop and Hyde had one of his minions there, a guy in a black cloak, so I couldn’t see his face. He threatened to hurt Henry, so I pulled my sword and the next thing I know, he stabs me. Then you brought me here.”

“Emma,” It’s barely a whisper, his face breaking. There’s an unease that settles in the silence that follows. It’s the first chance she gets to really look at him. His leather jacket is hanging on the arm of his chair, instead donning a pair navy pajama pants she bought him and a plain white tee. His hair is a complete mess and she itches to run her fingers through it, tame what sleep and worry has done. He gives her a soft smile, saddened blue eyes staring into emerald, and she bites her bottom lip. “We were sleeping- you woke up screaming. . .You weren’t stabbed.”

“Oh.” It’s all she can muster. When Henry first came to her door, telling a tale of a cursed town and parents that loved her and sent her through a magical wardrobe to protect her from the doom they were to face from the Evil Queen, it was the first of many times where Emma Swan had difficulty in discerning reality from fantasy. Everything she knew was flipped on it’s axis, and yet her gut told her it was right. But this. . .

She would have put everything she had on it being real. How could something so vividly painful not be? It’s not as if Emma is unfamiliar with nightmares-- she spent the majority of her life learning to differentiate between the shadows in her dreams and the ones in her waking hours.

Maybe her sanity was left in the Underworld.

“You’ve been through alot lately, between all that drama with your parents and then becoming The Dark One. Not to mention losing our boy here-”

“What exactly are you getting to, Whale?” She interrupts, the fear and anxiety shifting into anger.

“Maybe I’m not the doctor you should be seeing. Maybe, and I’m not a psychologist, but maybe your subconscious was channeling what happened with Hook, how he died, into your dream. You’ve been under almost constant stress. Saviors aren’t exempt from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

“Yeah and doctor’s aren’t exempt from bad dye jobs.”

“Emma! You're awake!” Snow exclaims as she walks into the room with David. Dr. Whale takes their entrance as a chance to exit and Emma sighs. As welcome as her parents interruption is, there are still questions about what the tests read that she would like answered. But mostly she dreads telling them it might have all been in her head.

“Is Henry okay?”

“He’s fine.” David replies, sending a small smile in Emma’s direction.  “A little freaked out and worried, but we all are. How are you feeling?”

“Better...Can we go home now?”

Her eyes find Killian’s at the end of the question, her heartbeat evening out at the understanding reflected back. It’s their own secret language, reading beneath the surface of what words are not spoken. The words that are laced with worry and anxiety, that say I’m scared and tired. She wonders if he feels it too.

“Aye, love. But first,” he unhooks her from the machines that keep her bound in the small, fluorescent lit room. “We wouldn’t want to take this bloody, beeping contraption with us.”

“Are you sure?” Emma can see the hesitance written on her mother’s face before she speaks. It's obvious by the bags under her eyes that Emma isn't the only one whos had difficulty sleeping lately. “I mean, what did the doctor say?”  

“It’s nothing.”  Emma knows they’re worried for her; even with it being nearly quarter to five in the morning, she doesn’t miss the pinched expression flash across her mother’s face. But her head is swimming and her stomach churns with what she’s afraid to admit and all she wants is Killian’s lips pressed to the base of her throat, his arms tightly wrapped around her middle, holding her together from a wound she didn’t receive. “Can we just talk about it in the morning? I’m really tired and I want to get out of here.”

“Uh,” Snow nods, glancing over at David before continuing.  “Sure. Why don’t you two come stay with us tonight? I’ll make breakfast in the morning.”

“Rain check? I kinda just want to go home. But I’ll see you all later, if that’s okay.”

“Of course. You’ve had a long night.”

She hugs her parents before departing with her arm snaked around Killian’s waist and her head resting against his shoulder.

They move slowly through the streets, Emma leaning her full weight against her pirate. He keeps his arm tight around her, though her grip is tighter, humming softly to her as the birds wake and harmonize. It’s not until he’s helped her up the stairs, his kisses soft against her hairline and his fingers moving deftly to disrobe her jacket and clothes, that she realizes it’s a lullaby. She wants to ask him where he heard it, if his own mother sang it to him, if there are lyrics, but he lifts her into bed and lies down next to her. She forgets her questions and shuffles until her ear is pressed against the hollow of his throat, his pulse replacing his tune as her own heart starts to beat in time. It’s enough.

-/-/-

He finds her in the kitchen, fingers tapping against her coffee mug - the one with an anchor and “a pirates life for me” embroidered in black. She had bought it during their six weeks of peace, offering it to him with a bright grin and a terrible impersonation of his accent as she asked him “ _What do you think of this one, love?”_. He wishes she still wore that infectious smile now and not the worry and exhaustion lacing her brows. He had fallen asleep once they returned home, but she had not succumbed, choosing instead to curl up in his arms long after the first sign of light shone through the window.

“You made breakfast?”

“Yeah, it’s still warm,” she sets the mug down to place the plates she had prepared on the table. He’s by her side before she reaches her destination, hand clasping around her wrist, thumb gently circling around the ink of her tattoo.

“Swan, talk to me. Trust me, drowning yourself in your thoughts never ends well.”

“What if Dr. Whale was right? What if I'm just slowly going insane and that's my fate as the Savior?”

He frowns at this, fury mixing with a sharp ache. Confessions made in the dead of night and mused with tales of her past create a chasm of self doubts as deep as his own. Still, it takes him aback to see how easily she discharges her own credibility. It was real. The pain she was in as real as the house they now stood in.  And he tells her as much. “I was right there with you, remember? That pain was real. I’ve seen magic do terrible things. We might not have been able to see it, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t feel it.”

“You think this was some sort of dark magic?”

“Aye.” He smiles at her, trying to convey his belief in her, but she sits a bit warily and he thinks he might’ve missed the mark. He drops to the table and swirls the fork in his hand. “Perhaps we could take a trip to Regina’s after your parents.”

Emma’s shoulders drop and she nods. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

-/-/-

Regina's house is surprisingly clean, considering. In the small amount of time between leaving the Underworld and Zeus reviving Killian, Emma had managed to tear her own house apart. (She had been able to keep herself together during the day as she searched, but nightfall crept in, with every inch of pain singing of a lost future, a lost true love, and grief consumed her. With the evil half of Regina gone, she can only imagine how she’s coping.)  

Henry nearly knocks Emma over with the force of his hug (When had he gotten so big?) and she laughs, ruffling his hair. “Hey, kid. Is Regina around?”  

“Yeah, she’s in the kitchen. Are you feeling better?”

“That’s actually what I am here to talk about. Can you hang with Killian for a bit?”

Henry nods before leading Killian upstairs, likely for another pop culture lesson. She can’t help the smile that brightens her face whenever her true loves are together. It’s small miracle, she thinks, that two of the most important men in her life have formed such a strong bond. They seemed to have developed their own language, with jokes she doesn’t quite get and secrets shared while drifting away at sea. Killian has become such an intrical part of Henry’s growth into a young man and it warms her burdened heart to know that no matter what Henry has Killian to lean on.

Emma grants herself one last look up the grand staircase before trekking through the house in search of Regina. She finds her elbows deep in a sink brimming with suds and dirty dishes. “I thought you’d be too refined for dishes.” Emma remarks, offering a small smile.

“Yeah, well I’m a mother too. And mother’s don’t get the privilege of skipping these tasks.” She fidgets with the faucet until the water comes to a stop, drying her hands on a towel next to her. “So,” Regina pauses, noticing the downcast expression on her face. “Wait, what’s wrong?”

“It’s. . .Do you know anything about a dark magic making a dream feel real?”

“Like a sleeping curse?”

“Not exactly. More like, if you’re injured in a dream, once you wake up, you can still see and feel the effects of that injury. . .”

“Did you go to the hospital last night over a nightmare?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know what it was. I thought I was stabbed until Killian told me I wasn’t. Whale wrote it off as PTSD and stress, but I’m not crazy. I know what I felt, what I saw.”

“Start from the beginning.”

And she does. She tells her of standing in the street with the black cloaked man, her family behind her and the knife to Henry’s throat. She describes the best she can the unbearable pain that took over when that same knife pierced her side, the blood pooling at her hands even as Killian had lifted her into his arms, the blade still lodged into her flesh. She recalls how she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see through dust that blocked her vision and burned in her eyes and -

“That doesn’t fit. You wouldn’t feel dust burning in your eyes from a stab wound.” Regina interrupts, her eyes widening as she pieces together a possible diagnosis.  “In the storybook Henry took from the library, there was this one story that I could have sworn was merely legend. What do you know of the sandman?”

“Oh Mr. Sandman bring me a dream, make him the cutest I’ve ever seen?” Emma singsongs.

“In the book, the Sandman is a generational curse. I bet you those dreams don’t have to be happy.”

“Wait, so you think that _the Sandman_ is haunting me?”

“There are so many new residents in town, Hyde and his untold stories...it has to be him.” The former queen bounces out of her chair before making her way to the other side of the room. She reaches up onto a shelf, pulling out a book similar to Henry’s. “Take this.”

“Thank you.” Emma replies. It feels inadequate as she stares at the eloquent writing across the cover of the book - Once Upon a Time - knowing that a piece of Regina’s happiness has been so recently ripped away. And yet, she’s still helping, not retreating into grief as Emma had done.  “Seriously, thank you. And if there’s anything I can do-”

“Just go home and get some rest. You look like hell.”

“Yeah, okay.”

-/-/-

When sleep comes, so do the monsters. This time it’s magic slamming her against the clock tower, her head throbbing with an intensity that carries past the dream and into the real world. Killian awakes to the sound of her soft moan as she rolls out of bed and stumbles to the door.

“Swan?”

“Go back to sleep, Killian. I’m just getting some ice.”

Instead of listening, he runs after her, helping her down the stairs to retrieve the treasure she was seeking, sitting her down on the couch. She feels warm in his arms, almost as if she could succumb back into slumber once the pain dulls. (She knows she won’t, but hopes Killian does.)

Maybe that’s the Sandman’s plan.


	2. Chapter 2

The ice chills his hand as he presses it against where she says the pain is sharpest. But her body is warm as it curves into his, her head resting on his shoulder and arm slung across his middle.

“Thrown against the clock tower,” she answers without the question being presented. Earlier she had tried to reassure him that it just felt like a throbbing muscle soreness, no glass to show for the nonexistent incident. It didn't work, even if her pain was not quite as dire as the night before.

He kisses the crown of her head and pulls her tighter, wishing that it were easier for her to fulfil her promise that she would sleep for weeks. She’s given so much of herself, he isn’t sure what there is left to give, but the title of Savior continues to demand more, to take and take. Its cost her a childhood surrounded by love and robbed her of sleep for months. And now. . .

“Hey, I’m okay-”

“Swan, you’re in pain. You can’t sleep, you-”

“You.” she thumbs the outline of his jaw. “I have you. The pain is already going away and now it’s just you and me, alive. That’s all that matters. And in a few hours, I’m gonna go to the station and do my job. I've functioned on a lot less.”

“Emma, you need sleep.”

“I love you.” It isn’t the first time she’s said it without looking at him, yet his heart flutters just the same. She sounds so tired, but he thinks it adds to the sincerity, her voice cracking with the truth of her words. His lips capture hers in response, turning her body to where it rests atop his as her arms find their way around his neck. Their languid pace is slowed with her smile, so big he has to pull away with a chuckle. “I take it that means you love me, too?”

“Aye, Swan. I love you, too.”

-/-/-

She goes to work later, despite his protesting. It’s a great distraction from the exhaustion that’s taken hold, giving her something to focus on other than what she wants and dreads the most. Her parents are taking this new curse - that’s what she’s labeled the dilemma that has seemed to rob her of sanity and redden the whites of her eyes - in strides. They beg her to sleep, but it’s not a plea she’s willing to give into, not without Killian beside her and even then. . .

It’s better like this. She’s more productive awake than asleep.

She spends her break on the Jolly Roger, listening to the banter of her father and Killian. (W _aiting for rain is not the proper way to clean a ship, Dave. There are procedures that must be taken to make sure she is in top shape_.

_It’s not a she -_

_Did you captain her for centuries? She shall be whatever the bloody hell I wish._

_Still doesn't give an inanimate object a gender.)_

Usually Emma would interject, but there's a smile on Killian’s face the moment he looks to her, bright, happy eyes speaking to the deepest parts of her soul. It's happened several times since returning to Storybrooke- an overwhelming calm rushing in at the sight of one another alive, putting a pause to the conversation and world around them as if they're the only people in it. For now it’s enough. It’s enough to push her through the rest of the day - these stolen quiet moments in the midst of chaos. And later, after the sun has set behind the clouds, blanketing them in darkness, she crawls under the covers. “I don’t want to sleep,” she whispers to the man lying next to her. He’s massaging the knots from her shoulders in a comfortable silence. But already she can feel her awareness fading, his reply lost to a world of green fields and wind blurred trees.

-/-/-

She buries her cheek in the dark of leather, welcoming the chill of wind that howls in her ear. Sitting astride a horse, she leans her weight into Killian, an infectious laugh escaping when Buttercup progresses past a gallop.

“Where are we going?” she asks, her voice probably a bit too loud as it combats the noise of the wind.

“That's the adventure of it, love.”

Everything around her looks of Camelot - gorgeous mountains outlined in streams, a nature untouched by man's inventions. instead preserved with magic that shines with color.

Yet, somehow it's not. For she knows their home is but a mile south of where they are, winding through thick wood. Somehow, they are in Storybrooke. And she doesn't question it as they ride through the forest, letting her eyelids shut as she soaks in the calm.

And really, she should have known better. Before she can act, Buttercup is rearing up, throwing both her and Killian in the air before smashing her once strong frame against a tree.

Throbbing. It’s the first thing she recognizes before the panic sets in. Before she turns her head to the bleeding form next to her. There’s blood pooling at her shoulder, coarse bark having slowed her descent to the ground. But it doesn’t matter, not when he’s drapped silently across the mud, unresponsive. She can almost reach him, fingertips lightly scratching at a hook doing nothing to rouse him.  

She’s vaguely aware of the high pitched cry that escapes, a plea for him to be okay, and _dammit wake up_ , but she can’t move, can’t reach him with paralysis seizing her muscles.

Ice. It’s the next thing she recognizes before reality comes back into focus. (Which reality, she isn’t sure. She’s been dancing on the line between the realm of dreams and where she finds herself now. An exhausting dance blurred by magic and Webster-defined insanity.) His voice is rough and soothing as he holds her to his chest and she hopes this is the world she can stay in, nightmare or not. Her shoulder still hurts, but _he’s here_ and _he’s safe_.

“Emma?” He asks as her breathing slows, voice cracking with a fear she had caused.

“Are you okay?”  

He flinches at her question, brows furrowing. “What do you mean am I okay? You’re the one who wakes up in agony every night!”

“Killian, I’m going insane. I can’t fix a wound that isn’t there and I can’t differentiate what is real and what is a part of this curse. It just hurts, everything just . . .You were hurt too and I can’t, I can’t…”

“What do you need?” It’s simple, less words than he would normally offer but better than any refute he could give.

“Can you just hold me?”

“Aye love.” She’s warm in his arms, head buried in the hair littering his chest and legs tangled together. Though she allows her body to relax, molding herself into him as his hand caresses her back and his lips plant kisses to the top of her head, her erratic heartbeat remains. A lingering anxiety that holds her captive. He tells stories and it helps. His voice a calming symphony of colorful vocabulary that she loses herself in. He tells of Liam, Milah, and Pan. Painting Neverland more eloquently than JM Barrie himself. She shares tales of her life as well, of school and foster homes, of a meaningless first boyfriend and the first time she wrecked a car. It’s not as well worded as his, but then again she never is.

-/-/-

He’s worried for her, his Swan, watching from the sidelines as she throws herself into work - combating crisis after crisis on nothing but coffee and Granny’s grilled cheese sandwiches. She needs to rest, to lay in their bed and think of nothing but herself. But she’s stubborn, as stubborn as he is himself, and they’re once again caught at a crossroads. They’re not fighting, but they aren’t agreeing either.

“Come on, love. I’m sure your father can handle it for one day. _Just one day,_ the two of us on the water.” He knows what’s coming before she says it, her retort well practiced now. It’s a repeat of their previous conversation.

“But Hyde-”

“He can wait.” He sighs, exasperated, before grabbing her hand and interlocking their fingers. “You have to take care of yourself, too.”

“I will.  I am. But people are counting on me.”

“Emma-”

“Soon, I promise.”

“Let me take care of you,” Killian whispers, dropping her hand from his and skimming his knuckles across the bruises under her eyes. She relents for a moment, leaning into his touch before righting herself with a shake of her head.

“I have to pick up Henry. Do you want to come?”

“Of course.”

He drops his head in defeat, letting her guide him out of the sheriff’s station and onto the bustling streets, his focus more on her sluggish steps and heavy shoulders than the direction they’re going. He’ll get her to rest, one way or another, her health more important to him than any villain claiming ownership of their quaint little town.

-/-/-

Coffee has become her preferred stimulant. More so than cinnamon coated cocoa, Killian’s flask that never seems to empty of rum, or the acidic monster drinks that taste like someone melted a battery and decided to drink it. No, coffee is much better to keep her pushing through Granny’s lunch crowd to meet her parents.

She finds them scanning the menu as if they've not memorized it over the last 30 years, and she slides in the booth behind Killian.

“Honey, you look exhausted. You both do.” Mary Margaret remarks.

“It’s nothing.” She pauses, distractedly glaring down a black speck of dust dirtying the corner of the table. The anxiety that she carries around like a second skin heightens at her mother's inquiry and she dodges the impending conversation best she can. “Henry just asked us today if he could walk with Violet to school. . .without us.”

“I’m sure he just wanted to kiss his lady love without prying eyes. I know the feeling quite well meself.” Killian quips and Emma’ eyes grow wide, smacking him lightly on the chest.

“Watch it, pirate. I don’t want to hear about your urges to kiss my daughter.” David warns.

“Those aren’t the only ones I have, mate.” His words are punctuated with a mischievous grin directed at Emma and her reddened cheeks.

“Killian!” She elbows him this time, smiling in victory when he grunts between closed teeth. “That’s what you get.”

Her yawn is what breaks the banter, a concern glossing over the faces of her family. Jumping foster home to foster home has made her all too familiar with the expressions. (Back then it had been pity and confusion for the friendless orphan girl who’s angry outburst was followed by tears that never seemed to stop. A temporary worry for the well-being of Emma Swan that no one acted on.) Now, the worry was genuine, but she could see the pity in the furrow of her mother’s and father’s brows. In hindsight, maybe the exhaustion was distorting her view. Feelings of never truly understanding one another buried at the expense of pretending to have the relationship she wants. “Please don't do this, guys.”

“Do what?”

“Look at me like I'm some sort of wounded animal.”

“We weren't! We aren't...we're worried about you.” Snow replies. The gentleness of her voice causes a twinge of guilt deep in Emma’s gut. It’s stupid to feel this way when she knows her mother is just. . .being a mother. So she pushes back the irrational feelings, deflects and hopes it’ll be enough to move the conversation elsewhere.

“I know and I appreciate that, but we have bigger fish to fry right now.”

“So the nightmares-”

“We'll deal with that later. We have to catch Hyde first-”

“I know what you’re going through and you can't run from this. When your father and I-”

“No, you don’t! I'm not you, mom! I don't need to know how you and dad conquered some battle that I am going to get through differently. Stop saying you understand when everything you do says otherwise. If you understood you'd stop bringing it up!” She stops as she realizes the room has cut silent to heed the yells of their exhausted savior and sheriff. Breathing in and exhaling with a sigh, she continues - tone harsh against her whispered frustrations “I'm the savior. Do you have any idea what that means? It makes you all a target. It means that anytime I fail, it puts everyone in danger. It could kill you. I don't need some hope speech to tell me how I need to open up about my feelings. Just because I'm not talking to you about it doesn't mean I'm not talking about it.” Her hand wraps around the ring that dangles from her neck, a silent comfort as she recalls the tear laced confessions she’s told Killian in the dead of night. It’s his hand instinctively wrapping around her shoulder and pulling her into him that keeps her from caving into herself, from a complete shut down at her public outburst.

He’s holding himself back, a silence between the four of them made all the more awkward by his absence of opinion. He has his thinking face on, brows furrowed and pursed lips as he sorts through and holds back from speaking his thoughts aloud. But the primary emotion on his face and her parents, is surprise.

“I’m sorry honey, I didn’t realize it upset you so much. . .Maybe a change of scenery will help? You can always come back to the loft. Your bed’s still there.”

“I have a bed and a new home, my first house, with Killian. I. . .feel safe with him.” She grants her aforementioned co-inhabitant a small smile, continuing, but her gaze not leaving his. “I don't want to wake up without him there. He helps.” She sighs, the words lifting an unknown burden from her chest, as if admitting that somehow made it ring with a greater truth. There was an agitation - distorted from sleep deprivation, maybe - that her parents _still_ couldn’t see that. They couldn’t see the changed man Killian has become. She hopes he doesn’t feel it too. “I know that you’re trying to make everything better, but sometimes you can’t. Changing where I sleep is not going to keep the Sandman from distorting my dreams. You don’t want to be around me when I do fall asleep, trust me. So can we just drop it and order some damn food, please? I'm starved.”  .

-/-/-

He asks her to do it, so she does. She drives the blade into his middle, feeling his insides scream around silver metal, hearing the slash of flesh tearing as the point emerges bloodstained on the other side. She watches through tears as 300 years of life drain from his eyes. He tells her he loves her, but he can barely breathe. So with one last kiss pressed to his lips, she withdraws her sword and his body plummets to the ground.

It doesn’t stop falling. Now, he’s wrapped in chains, more bloodied and broken than before. He’s suspended upon a murky green river, sinking slowly into its neverending depths and -

“Killian!” She screams, letting the smoke from the fire pits that light the basement turned cavern fill her lungs. Her feet smack against the rock as she runs, but the faster she accelerates, the faster he falls - a tortuous pursuit that causes panic to pool in her stomach as his feet drop out of sight. There’s an enchantment blocking her more supernatural attempts at rescue, magic that curls inward at her fingertips and pushes its way back to her core with no release. But it's too late now, her plea embedded into the rock it bounces off of. The chains rise from the river, prisoner absolved and his soul forever lost.

-/-/-

There’s a cry she hears somewhere in the distance. It increases in volume or proximity - she's not sure which. But it syncs to the chaos of her mind, the adrenaline and panic coursing through her bloodstream as it calls for, cries for, her deceased lover.

She tries to calm herself, pull the crumbling, shattered pieces of her heart back together when she realizes it’s her.

“Emma, it's just a dream. It's okay, you're okay. Wake up, love.” But her hysteria only grows with the sound of his voice, sobs racking her body as she seems to come to. His soft voiced reassurances are lost on deaf ears as he pulls her upright, hand smoothing over the ridges of her spine. They’re coated in darkness save for the crack of moonlight shining through the curtains, casting haunted shadows of the sleepless road they travel. So he reaches to turn the bedside lamp on, lighting the room to rouse her, to ground her back in this room with him. “Emma, I’m right here.” She shakes under his grip, several whispered no’s followed by a string of curses. His words do little, if any to comfort her, mind stuck in the terrors of her dream world.  “Come back to me, love.”

But she doesn’t, not yet. Instead, she curls into herself, an inconsolable silhouette of revisted grief, oblivious to the departed’s presence and the hand that tries to coax her back.

He can see the moment she returns, a relieved shock overtaking her features as her arms wrap around him.

She buries her head in his neck, tears slipping past her cheek and onto his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Killian I’m so-”

“Shhh, it was just a dream. You’re here now.”

“No, no it wasn’t just a dream.” She sniffs, trying to get her breathing under control. It only worsens as he tries to comfort her.

As she tries to articulate the reality of her nightmare. “I killed you. . .I watched you die-”

“Emma-”

“They buried you! You still have a fucking tombstone in the graveyard. I failed and you-”

Calloused lips stop the quiver of her own, if only temporarily, as she takes the comfort he gives. If he was an ocean, then she was drowning - his touch overwhelming in its tenderness. The tears that still fall are caught with his mouth while his thumb caresses the outline of her jaw. But soon her worries fade with the clothes that are shed, his hand and tongue working in tandem to soothe the wounds of her nightmares. Of her reality. Their love coiling with the heat in her stomach as they come together.

She holds to that feeling as she comes down, tangling her limbs with his so that they somehow remain one. If she was a ship, then he was her anchor and compass alike - grounding and guiding through the treacherous sea that's become the wreckage of the Savior's duties .

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers. And this time she gives in, following him into the warmth of the shower’s downpour. The water washes away the last of morning haze, cleansing and clearing her mind before revisiting the nightmare that awoke her. Her body craves his touch; his hand massaging the shampoo to and from her hair as his stump rests against the curve of her waist making tears fall anew.

“I love you,” she breathes, a wonderment in her tone. It's not enough to express how she feels about him, words caught in her throat seem miniscule to the emotions that stir within her.

It's later, over chocolate chip pancakes and her third cup of coffee, that she gives him details. She tells of the heaviness of the blade in her hand, of the crunch of muscles as it drove through flesh. She tells of the blood and how it remained stained wet in her hands as his body fell into the river of lost souls. She tells and holds herself together, a saddened detachment that only allows a single tear to fall. She tells of the terror that seizes her still - that this happiness they share could merely be a hallucination. “When I woke up, at first, the dream it felt. . .more real.”  

It’s the emotional weight, despite the coffee and sex that preceded and receded her confession,  that leave her bone tired as she once again prepares to head to Granny’s. Makeup aids in masking the exhaustion that hides underneath - the baggy red rimmed eyes temporarily reprieved with coats of concealer and a layer of bottom eyeliner she would usually go without. It’s not a lot, but it’s noticeable.

It can’t conceal the drag in her step, however, nor the mental pause in her replies. She’s beyond tired, afraid of the terrors that falling into sleep’s arms will bring, but she pushes through..

She pushes through as she finds her son already sitting at a table scanning a copy of one of his storybooks.

“Hey kid!” Emma smiles before taking a seat across from him. “Looks like a full house for Granny. I guess everyone has untold stories that are ready to be played out.”

“Yeah, that or they discovered the best place for lunch.”

Emma laughs at that - a small chuckle that quickly dies when she glances at the pages opened before her. “So have you found anything new?”

“Other than people not dressed in Storybrooke, attire? Not yet. But I’m betting someone here can tell us.”

And he’s right. They’re still very oddly dressed. Although she guesses that’s relative to the realm they are in. But her leather jacket stands out next to the silks and fanciful dresses, strange hats and ancient styles, even Bollywood fashion. A man by the bar dons a cape. She wonders what his story in particular might be - possibly Dracula, but she isn’t entirely convinced vampires are real.  Dracula, or whoever he actually is, stands tall next to a little girl dressed in colonial attire. They create a stark contrast to the mad looking scientist, old professor in a trench coat, and Chinese looking royalty. An eclectic, confused mix that’s dominated by a middle eastern man in a strange hat. He must notice her staring, because before she can successfully avert her gaze from the crowd, he’s walking over to her with cane in hand.

“I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Jafar.”

Scepter, she corrects her earlier assessment of his cane. It looks of rusted gold, frail magic worn with age. He sticks out from his companions, collections of other stories she’s heard throughout her life, as the more ominous of the bunch. And really, she should have known just by looking at him that he’s freaking Jafar. Villain. Evil. Sorcerer. His presence raises the hairs on the back of her neck, but it’s the tilt of his head and small smile he grants her, that creeps her out the most. (Not that she’ll show it; she makes a mental note to find the fate of Aladdin and Jasmine later, but for now she can make small talk. For now she’ll make Henry as comfortable as possible.) “Hi, I’m Emma. This is my son Henry.”

“It’s nice to make your acquaintance, Emma. I believe I’ve heard your name passed around a few times here.”

“She’s the Savior. She brings everyone their happy endings.” Henry chimes in.

“Ah, well what a noble pursuit.” She’s about to dismiss herself, dragging Henry back to the house for whatever bullshit reason she comes up with first, when Jafar continues. “I quite like this quaint town of yours. I’ve found the beds to be much more accommodating than those in Agrabah.”

“If you're talking about Granny’s beds, I can't say I agree.” She says with a forced smile, magic tingling through her blood as she clenches her fist to keep it at bay. As accustomed as she is to handling villains, there’s something simmering beneath the surface that she can’t quite place. It makes his every word more threatening and she pushes it down, tries to ignore the voice in her head that has the hairs on her neck still standing.

Jafar laughs - a small forced huff of air that does little to alleviate the tension. ”You'd be surprised.” He extends his hand for her to shake and she takes it, glad to have this opportunity to exit the situation. “Well I’m sure there are lines of people waiting to meet the savior. So if you’ll excuse me, I should get going.”

He turns on his heel and she directs her attention back to Henry. “Wanna get Granny’s to go? We’ll be more productive in the library anyway.”

“Yeah, let me text Violet first. She might know something about Jafar that could help us.”

“Sounds good.”

-/-/-

She’s past tired by the time they make it to the library, body sagging with the weight of her steps. Her eyes scan the same page for the sixth time and she can feel herself fading, lids fighting to stay open. It’s there that Killian finds her, drunk on sleep deprived delirium as she laughs about calligraphy and the idea of Dracula feeding off cat blood. (He’s seen her like this only twice, the first when rum was the culprit and the latter after a 36 hour shift when she refused to return home.) But she feels light now, the giggles that erupt alleviating the heaviness in her chest as she leans on Killian. She knows she’s being ridiculous, combing the stray hairs that hang at his forehead back behind his ear as she muses over if the sandman is made of sand, and the logistics of living in that state.

In the end, she decides that magic is the only answer.  

The energy high only lasts until she reaches their bathroom, laughter turning into silence as the faucet fills in the lost noise. She cuddles into Killian when they reach the bed, mumbling that she’ll only rest for a minute. It's a lie the moment her eyes close, the mattress embracing her exhaustion as it lulls her to sleep with her body wrapped around Killian's.

She dreams of fire, skin burning and engulfed in pain. It’s from her mother, the evil version of Isaac's cursed world, that chars her shoulder before spreading down her arm.

The screams don't come this time - instead she's left gasping for air she can't find, the pain, new in its torture but routine in its presence, muting her airways. She can feel sand fall from her eyes when she sits up, the burning sensation not leaving even as the particles land on her bedsheets. Mouth agape, Emma attempts to quiet the quiver of her breath as she gathers the remnants in her hand to dispose of before escaping to the kitchen. Killian slumbers at the edge of the bed, _finally_ sleeping through a nightmare. (It makes her own nightmare a little less harsh. His attempts at staying up with her have left him almost as restless as she.)

She grows numb to the pain even as the red blisters of her hallucination rise. Her magic, powerless to whisk it away, poofs a small tube of burn cream in front of her. She knows it won't help, but she also knows the pain will get worse before it disappears. It has to be better than nothing.

When Killian finds her a few hours later, she’s propped up on the couch, eyes scanning the pages of one of the books they had brought home from the library. His hair is stuck up at all sides, a shirtless sleep mused mess in navy pajama pants.

“I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to sleep through - what’s on your arm?”

“Burn cream. I know it can’t really do anything but I wanted to do _something_. I kinda forgot about it. And I’m glad you finally slept. You deserve it.”

He gives her this look sometimes, the same he’s giving her now, where his face softens and the lines of 300 years crinkle at his eyes the same as a child’s. Sometimes there’s a glistening in his eyes, his adoration so overwhelming that it doesn’t feel real. She watches his steps as he shuffles to the couch and interlaces their fingers together before bringing her hand up to his lips. “I love you, Emma.”

“I love you, too.”

“We’re going to defeat this.”

“I know.”

She knows, but sometimes she doubts, brief moments of wondering if this is how she will meet her end. Death by Sleep Deprivation. She’s heard about it before, through internet or textbook she’s not sure. Within three days of waking to the feeling of burning flesh, her body adjusts to the permanent insomnia, afraid of the perils sleep brings. Even when she tries to rest, her subconscious has decided that sleep is equal to pain. It's her body's way of protecting her, creating a lose-lose situation with whatever side wins out at night. There is no burst of energy to revive her, the next few days a reflection of her weakened state in Camelot when she took on the darkness.

Her family remains her hope, Killian her anchor as her frustration grows. And it’s Killian who comes to her with the first actual solution. “Emma, love.” he whispers when he runs through the door to find her half asleep on the couch. “The sandman is _in_ your nightmares.”

-/-/-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this! I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. The next and final part may take longer to post, but just be patient with me. I would love to hear what you all think of this story down in the reviews section.


	3. Chapter 3

It made sense, really. After Killian’s explanation that the Sandman is a character in her dream and therefore could only be defeated from within it. They were still struggling, though, with questions of how and why, especially because the sandman’s powers blurred the line between reality and hallucination.

(Especially because the information came from a page randomly appearing in a book.)

Someone was helping them, or relenting in their torture to give Emma a leg up for once. Although, there was always the creeping fear that the intel was false, an answer that leads them into a trap. Her gut says it isn’t, to trust that this is real, but--

“It’s a sleeping curse.” Regina chimes in. They’re all sitting around Emma’s living room - her parents and baby brother,  Regina, Henry, Violet, and Killian. Emma’s never had her house as a meeting place to plan their operations before. Even throughout this, they met at Granny’s, or the library, the loft, or the station. It’s a weird feeling, having a home she can share like this. She thinks she wouldn’t mind it if she didn’t feel like she belonged in an episode of _The Walking Dead_ , her brain fried and body slug from sleep deprivation and nightmares that leave her injured without physical proof. “Not like the one I cast. This one’s specific to the sandman. There’s different dream realms too.”

“So we find how to get to the sandman’s dream realm and what? Diplomatically ask him to stop torturing my daughter?” Charming asks.

“Not exactly. See, the realm is specific to Emma and what haunts her. The Sandman is powerful; he can play on the problems in your subconscious. Originally, this was used for good, to give people good dreams and hope. There’s only one other recorded case of a sandman, or sandwoman, using their powers for evil.” Regina pauses, making sure she has her audience’s full attention. “I think I figured out how to get to him though.”

“No.”

Killian frowns at his Swan’s protest. “Emma, love. Someone has to go.”

“No one is going through this, but me. I can fix it. I can defeat him.”

“No offense, Emma, but you’ve had your chance to fix it and you haven’t. You need our help. You can’t do this alone.” Regina says.

“And what happens if one of you gets hurt or killed in this dream realm? I can’t let you do this. You’re not under the curse. It could hurt you beyond what it does to me.” Poorly veiled panic rises in her voice, the caring words escaping harsh as the pieces of Regina’s plan click. Nightly, she’s suffered the pain of what it feels like to almost die, floating on a line so close she thought she had more than once. A line sewn with pain and adrenaline, regrets, and the overwhelming sensation of burning, sharp and aching in its pursuit to torment her. There were too many unknowns, anyway.

Her eyes find Killian’s, fierce determination masking their brooding anger, and she knows that he will be the one to go under. Unwelcome flashbacks of his demise reappear, the real version and that of her dream; she’s seen him in this realm before and she longs to never experience it again. True love’s kiss has yet to break the Sandman’s grip. What if it’s the same for him? If he doesn’t wake up, or suffers the same fate as she. . . _No_. This is supposed to be her job - she’s the savior. They can’t come running to her rescue because she’s too damn weak to do what she was made for. “No. Please, Killian.”

“Swan, you would do the same. Watching you suffer has been the hardest thing I’ve had to face. I’m going under the sleeping curse and you’re going to wake me. And do you know why you’re going to wake me?”

She smiles at him then, lashes fluttering up to meet the blue of his eyes, no longer hooded in anger, but shining with something lighter, happier. “Because we’re true love.”

“Aye. That we are. And true love is the most powerful magic of all.”

Regina pulls a strand of Emma’s hair without warning - earning the Queen a grumbled _What the hell_ \- that she laces through one of Mary Margaret’s sewing needles. “I need this to get Hook there. This and the sand that’s in your eyes when you wake up. When you fall asleep, Hook will gather the sand and tether it to this needle. Once he pricks himself with it, he should appear in your dream.”

So they wait. Emma lays her head on the cushion of the couch, face turned away from her expectant audience. They’re hovering, consuming oxygen and producing a sweltering heat. A week ago, she’d have been able to easily fall into sleep’s embrace, but now. . . 

Now her heartbeat quickens, smothering her in doubts and fears, while they watch on.

She’s grateful when Snow notices. “Why don’t you go and try to sleep in your bed upstairs? It might be easier.”

“Yeah, good idea. Thanks mom.”

Killian follows her with soft steps and a gentle hand that guides her up to their bed. He pulls her shoes from her feet, working his way up to her sweater. “Relax, Swan. This will all be over soon.”

“I can’t relax.”

“Okay, don’t relax. Just...close your eyes.”

She complies, listening to the shuffle of denim and leather as it falls to the floor.  She feels the mattress shift with the weight of his body, hand curling around her shoulders as he massages them. It feels nice, to be cherished like this. It grounds her, if only a little.

“The ocean is very treacherous being, “ Killian begins. _Of course_ he’d tell her about his time at sea, the place that calms his soul and now hers. She smiles up at him, resting her head on his chest. He knows her, truly knows her in a way that no one has before. His voice is a lighthouse as if she were lost in the sea he speaks of. “testing your will and determination as it throws you against the wood,” he continues. “But not always. Oftentimes it’s calm, the colors of the sunset or sunrise reflecting off it’s waves. And beneath that there are fish, mermaids and creatures of the sea, treasures beyond a man’s greatest imagination. Can you picture it Swan?”

“I can.” 

“You’re quite like her.”

“Hm?”

“The ocean, love. You’re equally fierce and beautiful, with the strength to take out fleets of sailors.”

“Shut up, Casanova.”  She laughs through her words - the laugh that comes in bursts, radiant and unbidden, showcasing her dimples - before nuzzling closer. 

(She didn’t know she was still capable of such a laugh, muscles feeling weak and dying for rest.) 

There’s an irony, she supposes, that something created to pull one into eternal sleep, is now a barrier to any sleep. Her body fights against the maddening exhaustion. She’s just so tired, so fucking tired and she can’t keep going like this. She wants --

She wants it to be over. His hand feels nice, massaging the knots in her shoulder and down her back, nails lightly scratching at her hair. 

It’s not instantaneous, her descent into slumber. Though the vibration of his voice against her skin calmed her anxious heart, settled her into a place of home, it wasn’t a magical cure. She tossed and turned, grunts of frustration that preceded reassurances and kisses to her head filling the space between them. But it did come, and once it did, a world opened up before her eyes.

-/-/-

He finds her in a castle, walls lined with sharp rock. It has grooves and crevices that form at points and claw marks ravaging every surface. There’s a panic sitting in the air; he can feel it  stiffening his muscles and quickening his heart. It reminds him of Neverland - as if there’s another layer of magic laced within this curse. Different hues of blue and black wash the stone. The rooms are emptied of furniture and light, a giant abandoned maze that has his eyes searching for something, anything he can find. Her name escapes his lips, once, twice, three times, each echoing off the walls in dismayed return.  

Minutes pass before he gets a response that is not his own. “Killian, get out of here! Run.” He can hear her as if she’s surrounding him at all sides, strained and exhausted; the epitome of the panicked ambiance that lies within this dream.

So he runs.

He runs and fights against the delusions of a sleeping mind. He runs and runs, feet pounding against the pavement never fast or quick enough as he winds through corners, each one feeling the same. The deja vu alone is enough to drive him insane. That is,  until he sees her. She’s lying against a pillar, blood seeping from her arm.

“When I said run, I meant away from him,” she points to the beast that’s roaring back to life behind them. He had been so focused on her, he hadn’t noticed the cause of the pain - the dragon eyeing its newest victim. But Emma’s black sweater is torn, patches of yellow and purple skin replacing the fabric, dark enough to match the scales of the beast behind them. Her head bears the worst of what he can discern from his limited view, a small gash opening around a knot that’s already formed and blood slowly making its way to her lap.

“Emma.” Her name is a whisper, a prayer to whatever god can help them leave this hell. He had only seen the aftermath, the glassy fatigued eyes and agonized screams as she curled into herself. Not until now was he able to see the wounds of what she felt. Her reality of what was happening. This was the invisible pain that stole her sleep and tormented her psychologically, physically, emotionally, now in all its glory. He feels sick to his stomach, the knot that forms no less painful than a punch to the gut. But he pushes it down. He can deal with his guilt later. Now he has to help her, to rescue them both from these demented dreams. “I had no idea, Em.” Killian uses the curve of his hook to brush her matted hair behind her ear, making no effort to conceal the tears that slip down his cheek.

“You need to get out of here. Killian, please. Now.  Get out--”

He ignores her protests, sweeping her crippled form into his arms. But it’s too late. And he watches as the dragon engulfs the castle in flames.

-/-/-

They land outside the gate of their house. To her surprise, she feels no fire, but the ache from her earlier battle remains.

“How?” Emma asks. She falters as she tries to stand, leaning against the fence for support. 

“I don’t know, love.” Killian responds. His eyes go wide as he stands to meet her. The bruises from earlier have turned darker, with more appearing in the exposed areas of skin. She tries to magic it away, her blood tasting of metallic as it drips down her forehead, but she’s pretty sure her wrist is broken and body too weak to support her supernatural attempts at healing. Everything in her aches, mingling with the sharp pain of her open wounds. Feeling like hell is an understatement, but it’s the nausea overtaking her that’s winning her attention.

Killian reaches her in one long stride, standing at her front catch her should she fall. While he bears no physical injuries, his eyes are as pained at the sight as she feels. But there’s something else too, something she can’t quite place in the way he looks at her. (She thinks it might be a glimmer of hope, but for what, she’s not sure.) He pulls her into his chest and she relishes in his gentle touch. If magic can’t heal her, she’s pretty sure this could. In the distance, she can hear glass shatter. It’s muffled by his hug and maybe a concussion, so she ignores it and runs her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

“This was too easy.” He says, stepping back to look into her eyes.  

“What was too easy?”

“Your dream. This is your dream realm, love. We aren’t safe here.”

“Killian, that’s insane. This isn’t--” 

Immediately, she knows it’s Henry’s scream that cuts her off. Suddenly, he appears on the porch with his neck strained and head lifted up as he is strangled by an unknown force. Emma starts to run to him, but Killian’s arm pulls her back. Delirious with confusion, she pushes him away, the force of it causing her to stumble back into him. It only enrages her further. She has a mind to sweep his leg _Karate Kid_ style, knock him to the ground, but this is Killian. Her Killian. It doesn't make sense. He would help her. Help Henry. He loves Henry and it just doesn't add up -- 

“This must be it, this must be the test.” Killian says. 

“Let me get my son!” She tries to free herself, throwing her beaten body forward with all her weight. “Henry!” she calls. It’s a tired, angry cry that coils with the panic in her stomach. 

“Emma,” he takes her wrist and turns her toward him. Wild eyed desperation is what meets his eyes as she tries to understand. _Why isn’t he helping? Henry needs them, needs her. Henry_ \--  

“This is a dream. Just like the ones you’ve been having.”

“No, no this is real. Henry - Henry’s--”

“Henry is back at home with your family. You’re sleeping. If this were real, I would be doing everything in my power to rescue your boy. Look at me, Swan.”

She listens, tearing her eyes away from the scene playing out in front of her, if only for a moment. While she’s felt her heart literally split in half, there is no pain that can compare to this. Like glass cutting into the arteries as it flattens under the pressure of a lifetime's worth of love and loss. There’s a part of her, as subtle as a ticking clock in a loud room, that’s something close to believing her teary eyed true love. Killian’s eyes plead with hers, desperation in the furrow of his brow.  She _wants_ to believe it and maybe, believing it is what will make it true. Henry told her that and it saved him the first time.

“Do you trust me?” Killian asks. In any other situation, she’d chastise his question, but this. . . 

She nods, tears streaming down her face. “What do I do?”

“This is a dream, the only real thing in it is you and me. Fight against it, fight against the pain that’s the only way this is gonna end.”

She can’t see what’s choking him, only watch as he struggles to breathe and the lack of oxygen threatens to take his life. “This isn’t real, this isn’t real” she repeats over and over, hoping that each tear stained word becomes more convincing. Afraid that looking away will show she’s fallen into the trap of this false reality, she watches on. Killian’s rings leave marks against her fingers as she holds his hand in a death grip, his hooked arm around her middle. She can feel her chest constrict, heart shattering into a million pieces as each second passes. “This isn’t real, this isn't. . .” Her voice breaks on a sob as Henry’s body falls to the ground. _It wasn't real_.

And then her son disappears in a puff of smoke, black and cruel and screaming of death. In his place stands a man, tanned and mystical, with brown curls that reach his shoulders.  He’s donning a hooded robe, intricate designs made of black and gold sand weaving their way through the fabric. With his appearance, Emma can feel the pain of her wounds evaporate, bruises vanish into the paleness of her skin and sticky, dried blood lift away as open wounds close. It’s instant relief and she sighs as the alleviation soothes her muscles. And though his presence brings a physical healing, she doesn’t dare trust it. She doesn’t dare let go of Killian until her foe speaks.   

“Congratulations, Miss Swan. You broke my spell.” 

“Go to hell.”

“I think we’d both agree this is worse than hell. At least for you. You are a brave one though.”

“Why did you do this to me?” There’s a desperation she lets escape from beneath the anger that’s boiling over. She needs to wake up, needs to see Henry alive and well and smiling. But she also needs answers.

“Me? I’m just a hired hand. You have no idea how lonely it can be when you’re cursed to the realm of dream until death. Sometimes I like to play games, it keeps me entertained.” 

“Who hired you?”

“Well, I suppose the game is over.” Killian tenses behind her, jaw clenching as he balls his hand into a fist. He’s as ready, if not more, to kill the son of a bitch who has put them through this. She clasps her hand over the clenched fist, the small gesture not necessarily meaning _stop_ , but rather _wait_.

“Spit it out, Sandy.” Emma says.

“Jafar.” 

“What did--”

“Your loverboy here stole his true love. But that’s his story to tell, not mine. This has been fun, Emma. I must now bid you both goodbye.” The Sandman throws a handful of sand in her direction and before she can protest, she awakes. 

-/-/-

She had almost forgotten what it felt like to awaken in a better reality - that dreams are simply dreams that haunt, pleasure, or bewilder you in the waking hours - and not a physical ache, not always. There’s an emotional tear though, still pressing on the corners of her heart, that has her running down the stairs in search of her son. She finds him at the kitchen table, along with the rest of her family, and wraps him in a hug. _It wasn’t real_. 

“Woah, mom. Everything okay? What happened? Is the curse over?” She laughs at the bombardment of her son’s questions, ruffling his hair in response.

“Yeah, kid. It’s over.”

“Where’s Killian?” Henry asks. She can’t help the upward tilt of her lips at this being one of the first thing he notices, her heart warming at the thought.  

“I haven’t woke him yet. I just needed to see you.”

Henry accepts her answer without a reply, instead squeezing her tighter. While it may have not been reality, she knows watching him die will not easily be forgotten. For now, this hug is enough, his voice deeper than it used to be reassuring her of his presence and his life. So she lets go and kisses his forehead before turning back to wake her other true love.

Since living together, Emma hasn’t gotten the chance to truly enjoy the nauseating couple-y things that her and Killian should be doing. Between dying and curses, Dark Ones and nightmares depriving them both of sleep (albeit in different ways), she hasn’t soaked in this happiness. But as she winds the corner to their bedroom and finds him sleeping, arm draped over the side of the bed, she can’t help but smile. He looks so peaceful, snuggled into a mountain of pillows and blankets. Her thumb traces his forehead, pushing stray hairs out of his face. Threats still loom, but with Killian by her side, she’s ready to start their happy beginning. She leans down and kisses him, prepared to battle whatever demons from his past have reemerged.

“Swan,” he whispers in awe, rainbow light sweeping over the house, making their hearts light and full. It’s a magic that leaves them in pure bliss with it’s power and light. She pulls him up to a sitting position, a soft smile to challenge his grimace.

“Smile, Captain. Most people do when their true love wakes them from a curse.” She punctuates her words with a light shove. He listens, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Emma turns her head, inspecting him, while her thumb traces his jaw. “It’s over, you know.”

“All of that pain, it was because of me. Of what I did. The man I was. . .”

“Killian, I don’t care. It wasn’t your fault, you can’t put that on yourself. But now we have the chance to right a wrong, to apologize for whatever happened.” She pauses, lacing her fingers with his. “ I need to know what you did but if you think I didn’t go into this relationship knowing that there were many things in your past that you aren’t proud of, you’re wrong. I know the man you are and I love that man, no matter what it is he used to do.”

Killian sighed, leaning into her touch as his strength. “Jafar had a very powerful scepter. It hypnotizes people and I wanted to use it on the Crocodile. But before I could use it, I met Cora and eventually forgot about it. And then I met you. . .” He gives her a melancholy smile. “He begged me not to take it, said his true love was stuck inside the scepter. All I cared about was my revenge, I had already lost Milah, so if I couldn’t have love then no one could. I’m so sorry, Emma.”

His skin is rough beneath her fingers as she caresses his face, gently outlining his silhouette. He looks so crushed, broken from the weight of sins he now regrets (she knows the feeling), and she wants to wash it all away. Erase the pain and heartbreak. “I know you are. Let’s go meet Jafar, see if we can give him his true love back. Do you still have the scepter?”

“It’s hidden in the Jolly Rodger.”

Emma shoots him a small smile, tugging at his arm. “Get dressed and we’ll go get it.”

-/-/-

Emma stares at the hand lettering on Granny’s guestbook, thumb tracing the curves and indentations of names she’s grown up hearing, seeing, without truly knowing they were real. But they’re all here, sleeping on the same crappy mattresses she once had, all with a variation of a familiarity in their stories. Their life had paused, stuck in a land where their narratives would no longer play out, but now it was time for the clock to start ticking again.

She stops when she sees his name, Jafar, room 221. There’s a hesitance as she grips his scepter, Killian’s hand at her back urging her forward. “Thank you, Granny!” Emma offers.

“You’re welcome, honey. Go do what you need and get some rest. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

Emma nods in the widow’s direction and continues on her way. She can feel Killian’s nervous energy from behind her. He’s staring a little too intensely at the door, clenching and unclenching his fist. As Emma raises her own fist to knock, they’re enveloped in thick red smoke, transported next to the pond.

“What the hell?” Emma mutters, more to herself than anyone. As many times as she’s used her own magic to teleport herself from one place to another, it’s always disorienting when you're not expecting it. She's grateful for the familiarity of where they are, though she hasn't ventured back to this particular location since going to the Underworld. At the edge of the water, she sees Jafar smirking in their direction, his new scepter glowing bright.  

“I heard you were looking for me. You’re looking awfully tired, Savior, _Hook_.”    

“We broke your curse!” Emma shouts, but it’s too weak, too tired to be anything close to intimidating. 

“Ah, so it would seem.”

“We’ve got it, your scepter. Isn’t that what this whole thing was about?”

“Oh Emma, I truly thought you were smarter than that. It must be the lack of sleep getting to you. Let me lay it out in black and white. This was about revenge. Hook took my love, so I vowed to take his.”

“What if we can give her back to you?” Killian interjects. “What if Emma can free her from the scepter?” Looking to the ground and back up with a dramatic roll of his head, Killian lets out a sigh of frustration. He pauses, then collects himself, his anger, and softens his voice. “I’m sorry, mate. I’m sorry I took her. Let me, let us do this for you.”

“You can’t give me back the years I lost with her.”

“No, and I’m sorry for that.” This time it’s Emma that answers. She’s proud, so proud of Killian for facing this, for the man he’s become since she found him under a pile of dead bodies in the Enchanted Forest. And now, he doesn’t have to face these mistakes alone. “But I can give you a future. Let me fix it. I’m the savior, my magic, it can free her.” 

“Do you think me an imbecile? Do you not think I would have tried that?”

“You haven’t tried it with my magic.” she reaffirms him, voice firmer despite her current state.

“You don’t look very powerful to me.”

“Let her try.” Killian growls. “Let her try and if it works, just let us be. What do you have to lose?”

Hook sets the original scepter on the ground, stepping back. Emma waits for Jafar’s nod of approval before conjuring up the little strength she has toward the golden staff. Her limbs feel weak, and for the first time, she thinks the magic hurts, unnatural to her frail hands and restless body. So she falls down with it, knees hitting the wet grass with a thud.

And then she sees a tall, brunette haired woman appear in front of them. Emma’s chest feels full as she watches the couple reunite. She thinks she sees Jafar _cry_ as he holds her and she thinks she knows the feeling. (It wasn’t long ago that her and Killian had a similar reunion, though it was death and not enchantment that separated them.) The memory has her rising to her feet, hand settling over Killian’s heart, head resting on his shoulder.

It’s beautiful, the happiness she sees on Jafar and the unknown woman’s faces. Emma wonders who she is - what fairy tale, folklore, or book,  bares her name and her story. But she doesn’t dare interrupt.

After the elation and shock has worn down slightly, the woman turns her attention to Emma, taking Jafar’s hand to walk towards them.

“Thank you, Emma. Hook. I apologize for what I’ve put you through.” Jafar says.

“Join the list,” Emma smiles, extending her hand to Storybrooke’s newest resident.  “Welcome to Storybrooke. . .”

“Amara.” 

“It’s nice to meet you, Amara. I hate to cut this short, but I really, _really_ need to get some sleep. We’ll see you around though.”

“Of course! Thank you again.” 

They’re already walking away from each other, Emma leaning her weight almost entirely against her lover, when Jafar calls for them.

“Captain?” he pauses, turning around to take a step in Killian and Emma’s direction. “You really have changed. I didn’t know such change was possible for hearts so cruel.”

Killian looks to Emma with a small smile and love gleaming in his eyes. “This town will do that for you. These people will change you for the better.”

-/-/-

She falls asleep with Killian pressing soft kisses to her shoulder, and groggy reassurances of _I love you, I’ve got you_ and _There will be no nightmares tonight_ , _It’s over, love_ , mumbled against her skin every so often. His arms are home, holding her together. His voice is safety. His kiss is love. She means to tell him, show him, all these things and more, but there will be time for that tomorrow. There’s other battles to conquer still - Mr. Hyde, a celebration dinner at Granny’s, and  copious amounts of new residents to be getting into mischief soon if not already - but it’s about living in between the chaos.  Right now, that means sleep. Tomorrow, it means making sure Killian is taken care of, that he feels as loved and cherished as she does in this moment. After that, who knows what life will bring. Whatever it is, she knows for sure, they’ll win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I cannot believe I started this almost a full year ago. (It was much later when I actually posted it.) I'm so proud of this work and I just want to thank all of you for reading not only this, but anything else I have written as well. This is one amazing fandom and I'm so glad I am in it. I don't know if I'll write fic after this or not; I always have viewed this as my swan song. But never say never. Thank you. I hope you like this and I'd love to hear if you do. Or any thoughts at all. *takes a bow*

**Author's Note:**

> On Sleepless Roads will probably be my swan song to writing. This fic is a love letter to the characters of Emma Swan and Killian Jones. I have poured my everything into this fic for over 9 months. (With many, many, breaks because my brain does not write when I want it to.) It started with filming spoilers of our favorite female protagonist being stabbed on a dark, foggy night in Storybrooke and it spiraled from there. While it still may not be finished, I am immensely proud of this fic and I hope you all like it. If you do, let me know. If you don't, that's fine. I love it and I think it gets even better. Thank you and I hope you stay tuned for the next two parts.


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